


I Reason: Earth is Short

by blackcricket, Elliott_Fletcher



Series: And Then He'd Go Back to Sleep [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swore time stopped; and then it did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Reason: Earth is Short

Sirius is unconscious, which is probably why James and Peter aren't here—you can't talk to someone when they are completely oblivious to the world. I couldn't leave though; my—our—bed would be too cold and large without Sirius. So I am here beside his snoring, sprawled form, freezing to death because I forgot my sweater on the bleachers.

I swore time stopped; and then it did. A bludger to the stomach—his mouth bled bright red, but Madam Pomfrey cleaned him up instantly. The blood is gone now, but it's stained his lips that vivid colour. He looked so pale, out in the quidditch pitch, lying on the grass, clutching with frantic hands at where the bludger had struck him. But I think he looks worse here: lying against the stark white, illuminating his skin until he looks like a ghost, like he's being swallowed alive by the sheets that swirl around him.

His shirt has been removed, and the livid bruise now forming makes my stomach turn, so I focus on his mouth. However, focusing on his mouth leads to me wanting to kiss him, and we're in the hospital wing right now, and it doesn't matter if we're the only ones here—I'm not kissing Sirius while he's unconscious, I'm not—

—I am. . . .

I'm bombarded with questions inside my mind, begging, pleading— _why?_ —and I reason: Earth is short.

I cradle his face with my hand and run the other through his hair. His curls always straighten while he sleeps, like he gives them life. Like he's freaking Medusa. No.

I untangle the knots and press my lips to his colder ones, and it's so unusual being the warm one that I can't help but be pleasantly surprised. I kiss mostly with my bottom lip and trace the crease of his eyelid with my fingertips. I wish he were awake. I wish he were well.

I wish so many things, but most of all, I wish these wishes would come true.

I feel a great tear in my chest, a chasm shaking into existence, trembling within me, like the world has decided to rip me apart before Sirius wakes. It's a conspiracy against me.

I lean back, hand against my aching chest, my heart pounding through its cage, breaking my bones. And then it stops—too suddenly, halting—and my eyes water, and deluded as I am, I see that his eyes have opened. I blink, and it's gone; he never woke. He never will.

It's a sick pull in my stomach that makes me dizzy. I sit on the edge of the bed, and because no one has screamed at me yet, I lie down beside him, careful not to upset him. His fingers are a deep purple, but I still hold his hand. And because no one has told me not to, I wrap his arm around me, and it's lifeless, but it still feels like Sirius. It's still his weight. I lay on my side and stare at him, my lips hovering beside his ear. I can't resist breathing into it, and then breaths turn into mumbling, and that turns into words, and then I'm telling him I love him, but I don't know how I got here.

I imagine it started with a look shared over the Gryffindor table, that first feast I'd ever enjoyed. When he smirked, smiled, Siriused—and said we would be great, said we'd be stars. . . . I didn't know how to breathe. That look, those words . . . and now this. It shouldn't feel like such a long time. It does anyway.

All I know is that I love him, adore him, and the way he leaned on me in class and figured out how to eat left-handed just so we could hold hands during mealtimes—it breaks me, and then heals me twice as fast.

I wish more than anything for my wishes to come true, and then I wish for him to feel the same.

I tell him how he smells like wet dog in the rain; how his eyes shine, and how that makes my heart hiccup; how his leather jacket is adorable and _totally_ punk rock—

—I hold him tightly like I'm the one sinking, the one growing too cold to breathe and then colder. I'm no longer the warmer one.

I spend the restless night counting the stars enchanted to show on the ceiling, evening my breaths to match his when I find they've sped past, and whispering everything that comes to mind. I kiss him, sometimes, when I can't hold it in any longer, but honestly? The confessions feel better than the kisses do. It's probably because when you're that close to somebody, when your lips are touching theirs, you can tell just how unconscious they are. But talking? Even if they don't answer, they could still be listening.

I wish for my wishes to come true, then I wish for him to feel the same as I do, and then I wish for him to listen to all these words I'll never say again because they mean something to me because I mean something to you. At least, I hope. So get better. I'll be here, watching you, cheering you on, just like I was in the stands when that bludger hit you. I love you, Sirius.

**Author's Note:**

> We were very tired when we wrote this and only slightly less tired when we edited it. Thank you, Matt, for your knowledge and time; the flow would've been ruined without you!


End file.
